


Were you ever...?

by manics_and_me



Category: The Libertines
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, annalisa isn't in it much honest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 04:19:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manics_and_me/pseuds/manics_and_me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You and Pete...” </p><p>She says his name like it's a punchline (and it might as well be because hearing it, hearing it from her, is like a fist to the stomach any day) and he knows what she's going to say, just has time to think not you as well, before;</p><p>“...were you ever, you know. Lovers?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Were you ever...?

It's late enough for Carl to be tired, but early enough that it's rather embarrassing, a show of weakness that he tries to hide with an irritable stifling of a yawn. Annalisa has put MTv on, for some reason he'll never understand, and a playlist dubiously entitled “Indie Smashers” repeatedly yaps at his ears, vying for attention he refuses to give any of these ridiculous twats with more fringe than face, their three chord melodies and their insultingly simple riffs. Another song ends (something by the fucking _Kooks_ ) and he wonders why to be on MTv ever seemed exciting in the least. What drivel would be next, he thinks, and- yep, that would be him tempting fate because _oh fuck_ he knows that beginning. He knows that the co-creators had a massive fight over whether the opening chord should be Am or A7 and he knows the creator who won is the one who is now near running to his kitchen because he doesn't want to see this, he really doesn't. He sticks the kettle on in a weak attempt to style out what was a clear retreat in the face of The Enemy (The Enemy being anything that makes him think of the past, the band, _Peter_ ) but not quickly enough to not hear Annalisa's squeal of “Oh! It's you!” with what he can't help but feel is disproportionate delight. So what if it's him? She sees him all the bloody time, it's nothing to get excited about, and why she wants to see him jumping train barriers and getting all affectionate with the mate-he's-not-really-mates-with-anymore-but-let's-not-talk-about-that-eh? he really doesn't know. And fuck, if the kettle hasn't had the tactlessness to boil already (it's shiny and modern and Carl mistrusts it intensely) so what choice does he have except to amble back into the living room, and hope Annalisa doesn't say anything?

No such luck, of course. She's watching the television with undeserved intensity (video's were never their strong point), her pretty head cocked to one side and her pretty eyes narrowed. Very pretty, is Annnalisa, has he mentioned? She turns to him, with eyes sparkling dangerously and for a mad second Carl thinks she's going to ask him if she can have a pony. She doesn't though. It's much worse than that.

“You and Pete...” 

She says his name like it's a punchline (and it might as well be because hearing it, hearing it from her, is like a fist to the stomach any day) and he knows what she's going to say, just has time to think _not you as well_ , before;

“...were you ever, you know. Lovers?”

He tries to think about what to say, how to answer, how much to lie about and what should be true, weighing it up until the words are the perfect concoction to make her leave it alone forever. He tries, but finds he's remembering, remembering before he can stop himself, all the things he's spent many hours and even more bottles of whiskey on forgetting, and fuck _were you ever, you know. Lovers?_

He remembers the first ever time he met Pete, doesn't want to but he can't help it, Amy-Jo dragging him through their front door and swearing they'd get along just fine. He remembers wondering how anyone could be that fucking irritating. And tall. Irritating and tall and innocent yet pretending he wasn't, which was the greatest sin of all to someone already as corrupt as Carl was. He remembers him being sulky and difficult and magnetic and incredible and passionate and just _getting_ so much of the shit that Carl had thought was unique to him, all the doubts and hopes and love and romance- well his flat mate's little brother just happened to understand all of it, not just _understand_ , but turn into something pure and perfect with his pretty turns of phrase and _endless_ eyes. He remembers loving him a bit, even then.

He remembers looking forward to Pete's visits, even though they'd end fighting as often as not. He remembers when Pete didn't even pretend to be there for Amy-Jo any more, when he was there to see Carl, and it made Carl feel so sickeningly proud, to have made Peter desire his company. He remembers them sitting close on the sofa, not drunk, yet having consumed enough whiskey to plead it if it was necessary. He remembers thinking about the 5 boys he'd kissed and the 2 that he'd slept with (and how it was all an expression of Great English Hedonism, because, obviously, he wasn't gay [that point still stands now, thanks]) and wondering how many Pete had. If any. He remembers thinking Pete had quite girly lips, but not girly enough to pass as one if Carl were to kiss him. He remembers kissing him any way. Pete had made a sound of soft surprise in the back of his throat, and had pulled away, slightly so slightly, and had looked at Carl like... Like he couldn't believe his luck. Like Carl was the only thing in the universe, in his universe, like he was something to be revered and treasured, and oh fuck _his eyes_ , his eyes held the whole _world_. 

He remembers snogging sessions on sofas whenever Amy-Jo wasn't around, almost childish if not for the incredible intensity that defined their every interaction. He remembers (very vaguely) drunken declarations and awkwardly sober conversations. He remembers thinking about sex. With Pete. _All the time_. He definitely remembers the invitation, ringing Pete, intentions stark and laid bare on a January morning to be shyly accepted or mocked and laughed at;

_“Do you want to come over? Amy-Jo is at a mates all night.”_

_“...Yeah. Yeah alright.”_

He remembers the nerves. He remembers how he didn't turn on any of the lights, how Pete looked so scared as the street lights from outside the window cast shadows on his pale skin. He remembers the smudged “' _ave you done this before?_ ” mumbled into his collar bone, like it didn't matter when it did. “ _A few times. I was drunk._ ” The distinction had been an important one, the _few times_ were an indistinguishable mass of drunken revelry, the experiences merging into one meaningless if pleasurable mess. This was Peter. And he wasn't drunk now. He remembers the euphoria white-washing his veins and his heart until nothing was real but pleasure and nothing mattered except him and Peter and the 101 ways they could make each other moan. Half-moons carved into his back and sighs and gasps staining his skin. He remembers with more clarity than can be healthy.

He doesn't want to remember anything else, but the warped _Carlos Barat- This Is Your Life!_ can't be stopped now and the memories keep coming, a thousand tattered polaroids pasted over the insides of his eyelids. He remembers words and melody, entwining with effortless beauty, just like they themselves would at night, wrapped up in a romance with all the passion and fury of which they had both spent so long dreaming of. He remembers kisses and punches, cups of tea and bottles of whiskey.

He remembers dark days. He remembers dark, black, _what-the-fuck-is-the-point days_. Rooftops and shards of glass. He remembers Pete, eyes pleading and hands shaking, telling him he loved him, telling him he meant everything, telling him he was beautiful and incredible and it was okay if he couldn't see it because Pete saw it enough for the both of them. He remembers Pete saying if he jumped, then so would he. Bruises on his arms from Pete grabbing him, grounding him, sobs into his shoulder, apologies, declarations, endearments and scolds, wrapping him up in a soft blanket where the world couldn't hurt him any more. He remembers Pete saving his life.

He remembers the feeling of self worth, alien and unexpected and entirely thanks to Pete.

He remembers the success, the excitement, the fucking incendiary live shows. Biggles and Bilo against the world. Libertines.

He really doesn't want to remember any more. But he does.

He remembers Pete who wasn't really Pete at all, who was a shell that smiled with Pete's mouth and spoke in Pete's voice but rattled when you shook him, because he was empty. He remembers the Pete who snarled at him when he was only trying to help, and the  
one that snatched his hand away from Carl's, even though Carl was drowning and Pete said he would always be there to save him. Although, to be fair (although why he should bother to be, he really doesn't know) Pete only ever promised to save Carl from himself. Neither of them had planned for what would happen if he needed saving from _Pete_. Such an eventuality had never seemed feasible. 

He remembers the Pete he hates. The Pete who broke his heart into a million sharp pieces, that cut and scratch Carl's insides every time he breathes, every moment he lives. He remembers the Pete that made him too tired to cry, left him too desolate and derelict to care. The Pete who bled him dry. The Pete who gave him something to live for. The Pete he loves so much it feels like dying.

_“...were you ever, you know. Lovers?”_

“No babe.” he says. “It was just a load of silly rumours.”

It's a death knell, it's the final knife in the back and this time it's by his own hand. It's the final betrayal. With the words, the one lone bit of his soul that was clinging to the driftwood that had once been the mighty prow of the Good Ship Albion, gives up and lets go. Drowns in an instant. The ship is sunk, the war is lost, and there should be some closure in the ultimate defeat, but there isn't. There is only pain and sorrow and regret, Pete's gaunt face the last time he saw him and the smile Carl uses to assure everyone he's fine.


End file.
